Let's Pretend This Never Happened (26 page)

ME
: So, I was talking to the organ donation lady at work the other day and she told me a secret way that you can’t
not
give away my organs.

VICTOR
: You know what? I fucking
dare
you to make less sense.

ME
: Well, I know you’re anti–organ donation, and so I told her I was afraid that you wouldn’t let the doctor take my organs if I died first, but she said if I list my mom as my next of kin on my donor card then they won’t even ask you for your permission.

VICTOR
: If you want to throw away all your organs I won’t stop you. Just don’t come complaining to me when I see you in the afterlife and you’re all,
“Oh my God, I just peed all over myself because someone else has my bladder.”

ME
:
Fine.
And if you die first I’m totally donating your organs too.

VICTOR
:
Like hell you are.
I may need them.

ME
: Why would you need them? YOU’RE DEAD.

VICTOR
: What if I become a zombie? Huh, smart-ass? I’d be a pretty shitty zombie if they took my eyes out. I’d be biting poles and cats and shit.

ME
: So you’re making a decision to not save someone’s life on the off chance that it
might
be inconvenient
if you turn into a less efficient zombie?

VICTOR
: It sounds stupid when you say it.

ME
: Fine. I’ll just donate the parts that a zombie doesn’t need. Like your skin. Or your brain tissue.

VICTOR
: Zombies need brains.

ME
: No, zombies
eat
brains. And then those victims become other zombies, even though their brains have been eaten by other zombies, so obviously you could donate your brain and still be a functional zombie.

VICTOR
: Yeah, and then I’ve gotta spend eternity wandering the world as a mindless idiot.

ME
: [snort]

VICTOR
: Shut up.

ME
: I didn’t say anything.

VICTOR
: If zombie-me finds out I’ve got parts missing you will be the very first person I eat.

ME
: What if you die in a car crash and Hailey is badly injured and the only way she can survive is if she can have your kidneys?

VICTOR
: She’d be a pretty fucked-up-looking toddler with my gigantic man-size kidneys in her.

ME
: Okay, what if she’s sixteen when it happens?

VICTOR
: If she’s sixteen and I die then she can totally have my stuff. But just the nonessential stuff . . . like an arm or some fingers.

ME
: I’m sure she’ll be the most popular girl in school with your hairy old man arm.

VICTOR
: Ooh, and if a boy started getting fresh with her she could be all, “Don’t make me get my dad hand out!”

ME
: I wonder if this is the weirdest fight we’ve ever had.

VICTOR
: Not. Even. Close.

Making Friends with Girls

For the majority of my life I lived with a small, terrible secret: I’ve never really liked girls. I realize this is stereotypical and hypocritical, since I am one myself, but to be fair, I probably wouldn’t choose to hang out with myself if given the option.

It’s always been this way. I was too much of an anxious misfit to properly bond with girls when I was young, and I never really got the hang of it. I consoled myself by thinking of how much money I saved on Christmas gifts for friends that I never made, and reassured myself that not having bridesmaids or friends to give me a bachelorette party was perfectly normal. Whenever I hear of women who are still best friends with the girls they went to school with, I always make a mental note to avoid them, because I assume they’re compulsive liars.

Even as an adult I had mostly male friends, and I looked at most girls as judgy, cruel, fickle, and likely to borrow your Cabbage Patch doll and never give it back. Victor always pushed me to find girlfriends, but I’d convinced myself that girls are like small bears: cute to look at, but far too dangerous to have lunch with.

This all changed when I discovered blogging and found other people
online who were misanthropic misfits like me, and I found myself proudly telling Victor of my new best friends whom I would almost certainly never meet.

“OHMYGOD, Raptor99 is going to have another baby!” I’d say excitedly, as Victor pointed out that he had no idea who that was. “You know,” I explained. “Raptor99 is that person who survived cancer last year, and is considering coming out of the closet? Remember all the time I spent on the computer last month, convincing someone that they needed to get help for their bulimia?
That was Raptor99
.”

“Huh. Is Raptor99 a boy or a girl?” Victor asked.

“I don’t actually know,” I said. “Their avatar is a dolphin.”

Then Victor pointed out that it didn’t really count as being “great friends with someone” if you didn’t know whether they were a boy, a girl, or a dolphin. I had to admit he had a point, so I decided to get out of the house and meet a fellow mom blogger named Laura for lunch, whom I’d bonded with online over the mutual terror of raising a toddler. It was surprisingly awesome, but it was also a slippery slope that led to meeting more and more people. My anxiety-ridden personality clashed with the very idea of making friends, especially girlfriends. Laura tried to convince me that there
were
actually interesting and fairly nonjudgmental women who wouldn’t make fun of the fact that I often had to hide under tables when I was overwhelmed. I didn’t believe her, but I took a deep breath and decided to trust her, because if nothing else, this would be the perfect experiment to prove my theory that most grown women are just as dangerous as the kids on the playground who wouldn’t let you play tetherball with them because you didn’t have Wonder Woman Underoos.

Over the next two years, I became tentative friends with the bloggers Laura introduced me to, and I was eventually invited to go to a weekend all-girl retreat in California wine country for a small group of bloggers. It would include wine tasting and group yoga, and I could not have been less enthused, but Laura was one of the hostesses and told me I was being ridiculous. “Besides,” she reminded me, “you
did
tell me that one of your
goals this year was to make friends with girls.” She was right, but at the same time she reminded me why girls make both great and terrible friends: They actually listen to your goals, even when you’re too drunk to know what you’re saying. I
had
said that I felt I needed to try to find girlfriends, but what I really wanted were down-to-earth chicks who drank Strawberry Hill slushees nonironically, and who would respond to an invitation of “Let’s go to a wine tasting and a day spa” with the same sort of horrified reaction as if someone had said, “Let’s go join the circus and then burn it to the ground.”

Laura stared at me as I tried to come up with an excuse. “It’s true, I
did
say I wanted girlfriends,” I capitulated hesitantly, “but couldn’t we start with something smaller and less terrifying? Like maybe spend a weekend at a crack house? I heard those people are very nonjudgmental, and if you accidentally say something offensive you can just blame it on their hallucinations.”

“Tempting . . .”
Laura replied, “but let’s try this first. We can always check out the crack house later.”

The four-day getaway was headed up by a blogger named Maggie, whom I knew in passing, and who had recently gotten a giant corporation to sponsor her life list. She’d been to Greece, had a giant public food fight, and swum in Puerto Rico, all paid for by the sponsor, and possibly by selling her soul. Next on her list was hosting a small girls’ retreat, and so she’d decided to host
The Broad Summit
, so named because we were a bunch of broads. I can only assume
The Vagina Venue
was taken.

Women scare me enough, but bloggers can be even more frightening to deal with. Most bloggers are emotionally unstable and are often awkward in social situations, which is why so many of us turned to blogging in the first place. Also, they are always looking for something to write about, so if you fuck something up it will be blogged, Facebooked, and retweeted until your death. It would be lot like Lindsay Lohan spending a weekend with
TMZ
and the
National Enquirer
, and I suspect that one day my gravestone will simply read:
JENNY
LAWSON
:
SHE
WAS
MISQUOTED
ON
TWITTER
.

I assume that to most people wine country sounds wonderful, but it’s not my thing. Wine tastings and massages and facials and pajama parties at a small hotel sounded like something that would be fun for rich people who weren’t me, and who actually owned pajamas. I was trying to think up excuses to get out of this party when my invitation arrived: It was a small wine box with a bottle of booze and a crazy straw. Victor saw it and encouraged me to go and make new friends, and I RSVPed “yes” because I got drunk on the invitation. Then I spent the next week regretting that decision.

A conversation with my sister three days before the event:

ME
: I’m going to Napa Valley for a party and I’m terrified. Everyone at this retreat is probably fashionable and hip, and a lot of them are designers, and I don’t have anything designer to wear.

MY SISTER
: Just pretend to be bohemian, and they’ll think you’re avant-garde.

ME
: Well, I
do
have a fancy purse, but I’ve never used it. This sex company sent me a giant metal dildo wrapped in a Kate Spade bag in hopes that I’d blog about it.

MY SISTER
: You owning a Kate Spade bag is even weirder than the fact that someone sent you a dildo in it.

ME
: I know. That’s why it’s still in the box, along with the dildo. I’m totally going to bring it with me, though, and use it like a shield, so people will think I belong there. Basically I’ll use it the same way you use crucifixes on Draculas.

MY SISTER
: The dildo?

ME
: The purse.

MY SISTER
: Ah. Don’t tell that story to anyone there.

ME
: It’s probably the first thing I’m going to say. The last e-mail I got about the get-together suggested several shoe changes
in one day.
I only have one pair of nice shoes and they’re flats.

MY SISTER
: Well, you have arthritis, so you have a good excuse.

ME
: Yes, but I feel like I need to put that on my shirt: “Please don’t judge my flats. I have a disability.” I won’t have anything to change into when everyone else changes shoes. I have socks, though. I can change into socks.

MY SISTER
: Oh, you’re totally fucked.

Two days before the event:

ME
: Okay, I just saw the invitation list, and I’m
completely freaked about this party
. It’s like everyone else there is part of the cheer squad, and I’m that weird girl with the back brace who ate too much glue.

LAURA
: You need to stop freaking out about this. It’s going to be super laid-back and casual, and you need to relax and have fun. Just bring a few pairs of jeans and some shirts and you’re set.

ME
: I don’t own any jeans.

LAURA
:
You’re a damn liar.

ME
: How many years have you known me? Have you
ever
seen me wear jeans?

LAURA
:
Wow.
No. There might be something wrong with you.

ME
:
This is exactly what I’ve been trying to tell you.

The day before the event:

Karen (a wonderful and sweet blogger whom Laura had introduced me to) found out that I didn’t own jeans, and decided to have a shopping intervention.

KAREN
: I can’t believe you don’t wear jeans. Jeans are fabulous, and crazy comfortable. Jeans are like underwear. It’s like just wearing your underwear around.

ME
(from inside the fitting room): No.
Dresses
are like wearing underwear, because guess what I’m wearing under my dress? Just underwear. And sometimes?
Not even underwear.

I stepped out of the dressing room.

KAREN
: Ooh.
See?
Those are cute jeans. You should get them.

ME
: Mmm. No. My knees look fat in these.

KAREN
: Um . . .
what?

ME
:
You
wouldn’t understand, because you’ve always been thin, but when you’re fat your kneecaps get tired of supporting all of your weight, and so
when you lock your knees they bend backward. That’s why I always concentrate really hard on always bending slightly at the knee, so that I don’t have fat-girl kneecaps.

KAREN
: I love you, but I can’t even tell you how insane you sound right now. Like, most of the time you’re fine, but right now?
Totally insane.

ME
: You probably just weren’t listening those other times.

The first day of the party, on the plane:

You know when the captain comes on over the overhead speaker and says, “We’re going to take off in a few minutes, but we’re going to be without air-conditioning for a bit because we don’t have auxiliary power, and we’re having problems with one engine so we’re going to have to get out on the runway before we can get it started”? That’s when you should probably just get off the plane. But I couldn’t, because I was too terrified to move, so instead I just asked the guy next to me whether he thought this was some sort of joke. He didn’t, and told me it was nothing to worry about. “Yeah,” I said, my voice becoming shrill with fear, “but they just said we don’t have both engines working.
I’m pretty sure two engines are preferable
.”